


Praise the Good Blood

by Hancockles



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Menstruation, Menstruation Kink, Sexual Coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 11:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hancockles/pseuds/Hancockles
Summary: The Hunter gets her period. Alfred imbibes special blood. Only one of them wonders how they got into this situation.





	

To think: It would have been a perfect evening.

The Hunter had been on a spree – that was the word for it, though she disliked it on principle and thought it was too cheery for the hallowed work she was doing. But she was good tonight, deft of hand and of mind, all the things a Hunter is supposed to be when duty calls. She may have even called it easy, had it not been for nature’s horrendous timing.

Sometime between her first kill and her fifth, she stopped cold. Amid the dripping of beast blood (and it was quite everywhere, down her shirt and into her boots and soaking every bit of skin a person can have) she felt, suddenly, a warmer drip. And she smelled that peculiar, vaguely ferrous smell. A human’s blood. It’s an invaluable trick for a hunter to be able to differentiate between man and beast. And this smell was familiar, indeed.

She thought, meaningfully, “fuck.”

It was a short trip to a nearby river, made arduous by the appearance of yet more beasts, but the Hunter was quick in the dispatching of them and had soon stripped herself down and tossed her clothes in the river. She scrubbed herself free of grime and blood and, rising from the waters, waited.

(This waiting took both all the time in the world and no time at all. The moon rose double-long during The Hunt, and the night stretched like taffy. One never knew how long they spent on a given task.)

Eventually, horribly, that slow, inevitable trickle of blood appeared between her thighs: her period.

***

Dressed and dried, the Hunter thought it prudent to seek shelter. It was only a matter of time before the beasts caught on and flocked to her. It was said by the locals that there was a special potency in this sort of blood, some special component that made it hard for them to resist. She had been skeptical, at first, but the increased appearance of beasts made her worry.

Besides fire, the beasts had a certain aversion to climbing. The Hunter sought higher ground, which was no easy task in Yharnam – the architecture was such that gaining a foothold was near-impossible. But some statues still remained done up in the old style: on a pedestal, with columns and a flat stone top.

And she knew just the one.

***

The statue itself was hidden away in something of an alcove near one of the lesser churches around Yharnam. This lesser church was only steps away from the Cathedral Ward, and one needed simply to walk up a set of stairs and through the church’s halls, then down another set of stairs to find the structure in question. The Hunter guessed it was a shrine to some sect they weren’t aware of; a strange, cone-headed, berobed man was depicted in stone, a hand held benevolently, palm-up. Far be it from her to understand the objects of worship here.

But worship was not what she came for. With deft fingers and sure footing, she climbed up the statue, grabbed the flat stone top, and swung herself up. She looked around, seeing a few beasts who looked her way in turn, but she she paid no mind. They could slaver over her all they wanted. She was safe here.

With only the moonlight to keep her company, she soon fell into a light sleep.

***

“Hello, Hunter.”

A man’s voice. Familiar, but not instantly recognizable. The Hunter flattens herself against stone and peeks over the edge of her perch. Ah. Him. They had crossed paths a few times before. She didn’t think him unlikeable, but something about him was… strange.

“Nice to see you, Alfred,” she says. 

“How did you get up there?”

“I climbed.”

“I see that. But by what means?”

“There are some good handholds, if you look for them. Your feet can be braced right–” the Hunter angled themselves forward, over the edge of the flat top that protected the statue itself, and points at a missing chunk of stone “–here.”

“Ah! I see it now.”

“Don’t– don’t come up here. It’s fine. I’m quite fine where I am,” she says.

“And why are you fine up there?”

“You don’t want to know,” she says, too quickly.

“I do.” Seeing Alfred cross his arms like that, she knows he won’t be going anywhere.

“I shouldn’t mention it in polite company.”

Alfred inhales, holds that breath as though he’d like to say something.

The Hunter waits, but he says nothing. “I’m sorry. I really can’t explain myself further.”

“No,” says Alfred quickly. He brings a hand to his mouth, briefly bites a knuckle, then says, “Of course not. But surely there’s no harm in you coming down. We can chat more easily. I must mention that it’s quite fortuitous for you to have found solace in Master Logarius.” He nods to the statue.

“This is him?” The Hunter angles her head over the edge of the platform again. A cone-shaped eminence stares back at her.

“Yes, the good Master Logarius, who has done so much for all of us.”

“Oh. I didn’t know what this was. It’s a bit hard to recognize someone when they’re in the…” The Hunter gestures to the helmet.

“Yes! The ardeo! Our holy helmet,” Alfred says proudly.

“Are you sure that’s a helmet?”

Alfred smiles, but does not laugh.

“I have dispatched the area’s Beasts for you,” he says suddenly. “If you haven’t noticed.”

“I had not.”

“Last time we met you were struggling. And, forgive me for saying so, but one does not learn to hunt effectively in the span of a few hunts. Now, please, come down from there.”

Alfred comes close to the statue, extending a helping hand in her direction.

She wants to tell him how well she had been doing on this night, just to prove his statement wrong. But it isn’t worth getting into an argument over. Pick your battles, as they say. And Alfred is never an easy battle, in her experience.

“You can’t very well stay up there the whole night,” he says, when she’s failed to accept his hand.

“I’d like to, if it’s possible.” She thinks of the blood flowing steadily between her legs and thinks that very little could convince her to move.

Alfred purses his lips, turning them so thin they seem to disappear. He puts his hands on his hips, then lets them down again. He sighs.

“Well,” he says, carefully, “you wouldn’t deny me the pleasure of speaking with you face-to-face, would you?”

The Hunter considers it, and hesitates. Something about him seems… off, tonight. Agitated for reasons she can’t name. And when she recalls their last meeting – a quick, wet kiss in a damp alleyway – she’s inclined to refuse him again. She has no intention of repeating that baffling encounter. But her sense of propriety prevails. Clench your legs together, she thinks, and you’ll probably be fine. There’s no way he’ll notice. Your clothes are clean. He’ll be here and then gone after a few pleasantries.

He is, at any rate, a powerful ally to have.

“Very well. You have a good point,” the Hunter says finally, clumsily letting herself down by way of various nooks and crannies. She thinks she gropes Logarius’s crotch before she reaches Alfred’s re-extended hand and sets her feet on solid ground. Alfred places a hand on the small of her back to help steady her. The gesture is completely unnecessary.

Back to the statue, she stands stiffly, legs clenched together. Nothing about Alfred’s manner suggests he’s noticed. He waits for her to dust herself off before he continues speaking.

“Do forgive me for bringing this up, but since I have helped you on numerous occasions, perhaps you may assist me.”

“Is that what you came here for?”

“Truly, if I could have tracked you down, I would have come to you much sooner.”

The statement startles her, and she looks him in the eye. He doesn’t seem terribly concerned with his choice of words. The Hunter looks at each of Alfred’s features in turn (curved nose, downy eyelashes, strong yet soft arms), and watches him watching her. She frowns.

“In times like these, few things can be had for free,” he says. “And my assistance, regrettably, is also beholden to that rule…” As he reaches out and idly takes hold of a tassel on the Hunter’s cloak, she sees the look in his eyes for what it is: desire.

“Ah,” she says, flatly. “Of course. Aren’t you executioners supposed to be virtuous?”

He considers this, chewing his lower lip, then says: “These are terrible times, indeed. Extenuating circumstances, all that. I’m sure you understand. Things work differently on the night of the hunt. Now, excuse my prying, but, sweet Hunter– are you bleeding?”

She feels herself pale. “That’s– you know how rude of a question that is. I’m not answering.”

Alfred laughs. “That’s answer enough in itself.” He claps his hand on the Hunter’s shoulder, looking somewhat proud. “You know,” he says, “being a foreigner, I didn’t expect you to know how very valuable your blood is– untainted, and such. Imagine that!” He bites his lower lip again, thoughtfully. “You have never partaken in the blood, correct? Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself.”

“Do you mean the vials?” The Hunter shrugs their shoulder, attempting to free themselves from his heavy palm. “I don’t have the stomach to inject myself, if that’s what you mean.”

Alfred sighs wistfully. “How lucky!”

It’s unclear who is supposed to be the lucky one.

“Darling lamb–” Alfred’s hand moves to the Hunter’s shoulder again. Nails dig into fabric. “–I am so very weary of downing impure vial after impure vial. Would you be so kind as to lend me some of your blood? You would do me such a favor.”

“My blood,” says the Hunter carefully. Alfred’s gaze feels heavy on her; she averts her eyes, cheeks burning under his continued scrutiny. “You won’t be sticking any needles in me, if that’s what you’re getting at–”

“Heavens, no!” Alfred cries. “Why mar your flesh when you have a perfectly suitable, ah, free-flowing supply at the ready? So to speak.”

The Hunter instinctively clenches their thighs together. She looks up at him. How could he know?

“I see you understand now,” says Alfred, voice suddenly low.

“I don’t- I don’t think I can do that,” they say. “I’ve never-”

“No? Never? Where are you from?” he asks, bemused.

The Hunter turns their gaze steely. “You’re a church boy. You’re not allowed to make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun! I’m only saying–” a thought grabs him, and his eyes light up. “Think of the good you could do! The superior healing benefits, the improved effects, the taste–”

“You’re serious?”

“Oh, quite! Serious as a saint. Blood of, well, your sort is a marked improvement over the kind they peddle here. Especially when that blood is coming from a certain, erm, source… I’m surprised the whole town hasn’t been crawling in your direction.”

The whole town had been. But he doesn’t need to know how right he is. “You are serious.”

“You’re lucky I found you first, and not some beast or some no-good scoundrel.”

“Alfred–”

“There are so many unsavory types here in Yharnam, which does pain me to say, seeing as how I’ve lived my whole life here–”

“Alfred.”

“–But times change, don’t they? And rather quickly. One minute you’re having tea with your grandmother and the next minute she’s a slavering beast, tearing up the carpet, slobbering all over the upholstery. That throws family values right out the window. Of course, it wasn’t I who dispatched her–”

“Alfred!”

“–it was my younger brother, Edwin, youngest of all of us, actually, good blood guide him. He turned, himself, a few hunts ago, had to take care of him myself–”

“Alfred. You’re not going anywhere near my… um…” She gestures to her crotch, then blushes. He is quite a bit more horrible than she remembers, if this is where their conversation is going.

“–miss him dearly. I– what? You are being quite rude,” he says tartly.

“Begging your most gracious pardon,” the Hunter says, adopting Alfred’s overly-polite tone. “I find your suggestion objectionable.”

Alfred doesn’t realize he’s being mocked.

“You are objectionable! Being contrary for no reason! Very unsporting.”

“Apologies. Please, excuse me. This obviously isn’t getting us anywhere. I should go.” And she turns, meaning to angle herself around him, brainstorming other possible hiding places…

But she doesn’t make it very far. Using the bulk of his body, Alfred presses the Hunter against the altar. A large hand encircles her forearm and keeps her there, firmly. She can’t help but notice how large his hand is, how strong. Despite the disadvantage in size and strength, the Hunter eyes Alfred evenly, challenging him. She’s close enough to smell him; mingling tones of sweat, the church’s peculiar brand of incense, and through it all something recognizably floral.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You will acquiesce,” Alfred says, softly. “Won’t you?”

Again, she thinks of their previously shared kiss. He was gentle, certainly, and surprisingly soft, both in manner and touch. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if she let him…

The Hunter flushes and lowers her eyes. Alfred brushes the back of his fingers against the Hunter’s cheek in a gesture that is much too familiar.

“You see?” he says. “You’re growing warm. You must let me assist you. I will take on your burden, if only for a moment. Let me relieve you. It’s a sign, don’t you think?” He softens. With his eyebrows tilted back he looks a bit like a daffodil mid-wilt. “The fact that I found you here, of all places?”

The Hunter crosses her arms and looks back and up at the statue of Logarius, who is presumably watching them through that awkward helmet. Perhaps he is guiding tonight’s events. Don’t they say that divinity works in mysterious ways? Maybe Alfred’s right. It wouldn’t be stranger than anything else that had befallen the Hunter tonight. And, if he wasn’t lying about the effects of her unique brand of blood, she’d be doing him a favor. Which he would owe her later. This sort of favor must count twofold.

“Perhaps,” the Hunter says uncertainly.

Alfred ignores the hesitation in her voice and brightens in an instant.

“Ah,” he says, drawing himself closer still. “I knew you’d see it my way.”

His earnestness chills the Hunter more than anything; she can’t reconcile it with the rest of the folks they had met in Yharnam. Of them all, why is he… like this? Despite her hesitation, tension knots inside the Hunter, deep within her belly. His closeness makes it worse.

With two broad hands he grabs their hips and lifts her, setting her onto the flat plane of the altar. In what seems to be a surprising act of sacrilege, Alfred brushes aside any bits and bobs – empty candlesticks, an offering of dried flowers – as he adjusts her position further, as though it were no trouble. Truly, the Hunter feels like a doll, and is so fascinated by his single-minded concentration that she can’t think of a word to say. He’s so careful with her; he shifts her legs gently, flutters a finger down her arm, takes her hand.

All of it in preparation for one moment. The Hunter jumps when he sets his hand on her belt. She had almost forgotten what his purpose is. “What if someone–” they ask, nervously.

“No one’s here. Who’s going to see us?” It was a good answer and a valid question, but it did nothing to put the Hunter at ease. The idea that they were alone – the idea that she was alone with him – and the idea that no one would discover them made her tense.

Alfred begins his removal of her pants, lifting her hips gently, then sets her back on the cold seat of the altar. He traces a line down her underthings with a finger, applying pressure. Blood steadily seeps through the white material.

“I knew it,” he mutters.

The Hunter groans. “You’re sure about this?”

Alfred smiles, licks a corner of his mouth. He cannot wait. His desire is telegraphed in his eyes – they can see it burning there, just behind the glass-green irises.

“Please,” she says then, without knowing quite what she means.

Alfred kneels. He must like what he sees, for he immediately begins removing his gloves – using brilliant white teeth, finger by finger – and then lays his hands on her hips. He holds fast; she won’t be going anywhere.

Positioning himself just so, Alfred pulls aside her underwear and leans in. The heady scent of menses becomes apparent to them both. The Hunter’s insides twist. Her hand moves to cover her mouth, her face; she wants to hide. Alfred tongues her clit first, with slow and gentle laps, sucking softly, teasingly. He presses a gentle kiss to it, as reverently as a noble kissing a royal’s ring; as though he were kissing a pearl.

The warmth in his lips and the wetness of his tongue makes the Hunter shudder and groan quietly.

“See?” Alfred says; in his mouth’s absence, his fingers take up the mantle, moving in slow circles. “Weren’t you missing this?”

She looks down at him, feeling that she’s seeing him, truly seeing him, for the first time. He looks exquisitely haggard; his eyes sunken, the effect of which was made more dramatic by the dark smudges beneath. His golden hair is disheveled, his executioner garb worn and threadbare.

But something still draws her to him. Perhaps the promise of strength.

She had watched this man cut down countless beasts, grind them to a fine paste.

He’s skilled and careful and precise in his movements, and that reflects even here. The same muscles move, bunched together, but for a wholly different purpose. Though he is still too pushy the Hunter senses he’s trying to be kind.

Alfred thrust his finger into them, bit by bit, twisting this way and that, scraping against the walls, almost searching, until he finds what he’s looking for. When he withdraws that finger, it’s covered in a thick red fluid, most of it shed skin; he looks at it like it’s some great treasure. The Hunter claps a hand over her mouth to silence a gasp. He is truly, truly doing this.

“You thought to keep this all to yourself? To hide it?” he asks, eyebrows raised. She can’t seem to answer; her eyes are trained on her own blood. It looks horrendous, from where she’s sitting: a strange man with her insides on his finger.

The Hunter is stunned further into silence as he slips the finger into his mouth, licking it clean. He looks pensive, perhaps considering the taste – the thought makes the Hunter shudder. She waits for him to says something, anything. The silence seems oppressive; beneath it all she can feel the movement of her blood, trickling down her thighs, onto the stone altar.

When he does speak his voice is low, and secretive. “You taste divine.”

The unexpected praise brings heat into the Hunter’s cheeks.

“And look at you! So timid. This is most auspicious,” he says, sounding almost thoughtful. “My dear, I–”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so familiar,” she cuts in. When he looks up at her, she covers her face with a hand again. Having him look up at her that way is more than she can handle.

“I scarcely believe we can be more familiar than we are now,” he says. And he has a point. “You don’t understand what a special moment this is for the both of us.” Beneath the sternness of his statement he sounds, somehow, caring. Her cheeks burn, from embarrassment and from something darker that she isn’t willing to name. 

When she makes no reply, he sets himself to his task again, bending his head like a man in prayer, running his warm tongue across her.The first touch of his tongue is so warm against the cool night that it makes her jump. He presses on, sliding his tongue along her folds. Then he pauses and looks up, studying her with those green eyes. Perhaps he’s awaiting a certain reaction. Or is he uncertain? It seems unlikely that a man so forward in his advances would have any reservations about his technique.

He sets his teeth against her inner thigh, first, biting softly, before moving on to her clit again. Without her permission, her body tenses, and she feels him smile against her, a quiet groan of satisfaction rising from his throat. He sets his hand on her thigh, squeezes.

His unspoken praise of her reaction drives her mad. She thinks, somewhat wildly, “Who gave you the right?” and grabs a handful of his hair, driving him to action. He takes her clit into his mouth fully, swirling his tongue ‘round it, then dives down, running his tongue along her slit. She feels the blood being wiped away, thinks of it staining his lips.

His fingers, the roughness of his calloused fingers against her skin, his good-natured greediness – it all leaves her breathless.

He flicks his eyes to her face, then back, then to her face again – she notices because she can’t keep her eyes off him as he works – always gauging her reaction, adjusting accordingly. He pulls away momentarily, a smear of red across his lips.

“You are such a good girl,” he says, swiping the red away with his tongue.

“Shut up,” she says. Her heart is pounding; right now, she wants nothing more than for him to continue. She wraps her legs around him, tapping his back with her heel, signalling him to go on.

His tongue slides into her, deeply, and he runs it up and down in perfect rhythm, warm hand keeping her steady as she rocks back and forth into him.

He devours her until she feels she can no longer contain the energy built up inside her, and, sensing this, he takes his tongue away, moving it again to stroke her swollen clitoris, and thrusts a curled finger into her, touching some unfathomable spot that makes her cry out.

She tilts her head back as she comes with such force that it drives more blood out of her, onto Alfred’s mouth. As she shudders, riding out the waves of her orgasm, she places a hand on a pillar to steady herself, and looks down at him. For a few gentle moments he licks her, taking one last taste of her blood while he can. Then he sits back on his heels and, after pulling out a surprisingly clean handkerchief from his pocket, he dries her off.

The gesture is so practiced. Almost clinical. She moves her legs down from his shoulders, and he rises. Some of her blood has spilled across his chest, blooming stark red on white fabric. He doesn’t seem to mind; perhaps he intend to wear it as a sort of badge. The very thought spreads heat through her body again.

“Praise the good blood,” he says, wiping the corner of his mouth with a finger.

“Don’t joke like that,” says the Hunter.

“Oh, no joke,” he says, seriously. He stands, sucking the last bits of fluid from his fingers, then dries them and goes about putting his gloves back on. “I will see you again?”

“I think so,” she says. She sets herself back to rights. Pants on, smoothed, everything perfect except for that pesky trickle of blood. She has half a mind to climb back up that statue.

He leans in for a parting kiss, brushing his lips gently against hers, biting her lower lip, then pulling away much too soon. And just like that, he’s off, thick cloak swishing behind him. One would never guess what he was just up to.

It’s gratitude she feels, isn’t it?


End file.
